"In France," Marcel said with wintry dignity, "accidents occur in the bedroom, not the kitchen."

Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin - it's the triumphant twang of a bedspring.

I'll dispose of my teeth as I see fit, and after they've gone, I'll get along. I started off living on gruel, and by God, I can always go back to it again.

We old roosters must be cautious. Don't try to outwit your arteries.

I found the pearl of the Orient slightly less exciting than a rainy Sunday evening in Rochester.

If travel has taught me nothing more, and it certainly has, it's this: you never know when some trifling incident, utterly without significance, may pitchfork you into adventure or, by the same token, may not.

I cannot recall a more engaging passage in fiction, and I've been trying for almost eighteen seconds.